A Regular Romeo (and Juliet)
by The Pen's Lament
Summary: The privileged few who came to the protected island always spoke of its calmness, its beauty, and the native's way of life; that they were charming, isolated, insulated, a relic, the perfect society. The adults of the tribes the reporters visited taught their children to stare blankly at the camera while scratching their arse.


**Hi, This is pen, and this is the prompt I used:**

_**The idea is that there's tribes of people who share certain attributes and stay among each other mostly (ain't that just the truth!), and Sherlock is part of one of those tribes, while John is part of another.**__**Sherlock's people would probably be tall and arrogant and intelligent, John's rather short and friendly and loyal. You get the idea. It's a sort of elves, dwarves and hobbits thing.**__**And then the whole thing goes Romeo and Juliet when Sherlock and John meet and things just click, while their family and friends warn them to stay away from the other one.**_

**The only excuse I can use is that I was Bored.**

* * *

The privileged few who came to the protected island always spoke of its calmness, its beauty, and the native's way of life; that they were charming, isolated, insulated, a relic, the perfect society.

The adults of the tribes the reporters visited taught their children to stare blankly at the camera while scratching their arse.

* * *

The tribes Sigel and Gar were, it was widely accepted, enemies.

No-body was entirely sure what had caused the feud; even the tribes themselves didn't know (and, for the most part, didn't care,), but it was fact that they were out to get each other. If a Gar saw a Sigel then they fought a brutal, bloody war; starting with insults, name calling and threats along the lines of 'I will hang you by your innards from this tree for the village children to hit with sticks' and 'did that large, healthy looking tree fall down because your mother climbed it?', and swiftly moving on to punches, kicks, hair pulling and small poisoned knives.

The two tribes took immense satisfaction from this.

* * *

John was the embodiment of all that his tribe held dear; short, cuddly and good with a knife (The Gar never seemed to understand the irony of this.). Currently, he was watching some smiling, happy children prod a young Sigel with some sharpened sticks.

Sat on his right was his sister, observing - with deep satisfaction – the contents of her leather drinking-cup go lower and lower. He pointedly ignored her.

To his left was the sleeping bulk of his mother, with one great-niece on her hip and another at her feet. She payed very little attention to her two eldest, talking to her third (and youngest) child; the accidental (and often regretted) result of too much alcohol. As the child at her foot left to go and join in her friends with their amusing game, she recalled the existence of her son with a start.

"John!"

Sighing, the named turned around.

"I have just remembered; your father wishes for you to go on the hunt with him and the others later."

John frowned. What? He had been injured a few months previously, stabbed in the shoulder. He was to never hunt again. Mother, old and confused as she was, must have got the message mixed up. He said so, and she smacked him on the ear.

"Foolish child! I am only fifty! Your great-great-great grandmother lived to be over twice that!" John very much doubted that, but allowed her to speak. "I am in the prime of life, and don't you forget it! No, you are to join the hunt, boy, it is time you stopped moping about and pulled yourself together."

John thought that a little harsh – he had refused to eat or talk to anyone, but only until his sister had stamped on his hand. That wasn't moping, that was readjusting. Never mind; he shrugged, and resolved to go to the hunter gathering later, just so he could be sent back home again when his father saw the mix-up.

* * *

Hopping across the stones laid at strategic places across the river, Sherlock heard a loud, annoying noise emulating from the woods that were his destination. Oh, he thought, a large party of Gar. Hunting.

Not wan ting to become quarry for the light-haired midgets, he turned around and went back the way he had come to stand behind a large rock. As the noise neared, he began to recall Ways In Which To Disable A Large Group (capitals necessary).

Closer the cacophony came, closer, and Sherlock was reminded that Molly had been got by the Gar and hadn't been seen since.

They were over the stones now, and he could make out lyrics in the screeches, bangs, and loud thumping of wooden boots - _"get the Sigel, get the Sigel, get the Sigel…"_ (The Gar were not known for their song-writing abilities.).

The ground started to shake and bits of pebble fell down from his rock. He covered his ears and knelt on the floor and started rocking backwards and forwards.

His ears were filled with noise; it perpetrated his brain and turned his organs to mush. His small intestine tried to make its way up his spine, but was stopped by the sound, more effective than gravity. His eyes rolled back in his head and tried to depart from his body, and his toes began to bleed. His tongue tied itself in increasingly difficult knots, and his blood began to curdle.

Then, miracle! The sound began to fade. Sherlock's tongue returned to its normal shape and normal service was resumed. (Apart from the smallest toe-nail on his left foot. It was never the same again.) Slowly, as his ears returned to normal, he became aware of another noise.

_Tinkle, tinkle,_ it went. _Hiss, steam. _

He got to his feet and peered around the rock, to be met by the sight of a Gar going to the toilet.

He raised his eyebrows. "Hello."

The Gar finished and, hoisting down his skirt, looked up and said, "What?"

"Hello."

"Oh. Hello."

"Did your friends forget you?"

"No, I stopped for a piss." A pause. " You're a Sigel."

"Yes. And you are a Gar."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm, indeed."

"Shouldn't we be killing each other by now?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I left my spear at home."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed."

The Gar opened his mouth as if to reply, then stopped. Frowning, he looked at Sherlock as if he was trying to figure him out, and then spoke. "Gosh, you've got nice lips."

Sherlock was faintly surprised. "Thank you, I know." He hesitated. "You too."

"Really? Thanks. Hey, what's your name?"

"What is yours?"

"John."

He was telling the truth. "Sherlock."

* * *

Five hours later, and they were saying farewell. After they had shared their names, Sherlock had recounted his own life story and then, for good measure, John's. Said Gar had then produced a bottle of his tribes famous apple drink, known as 'bottle' to them and 'poison scum' to everyone else. They had proceeded to get immensely drunk.

As the sun set, Sherlock insisted on showing John his collection of lichen on a nearby tree. John had protested, stating he should go home. Sherlock had then looked so adorable with a watery pout that John had promised to come back the next day. He picked up the contents of his pack, and took his leave.

Sherlock watched him go, before turning to meet the disapproving eyes of his older brother, behind-the-scenes leader of the Sigel.

* * *

**Apologies, I was told a while ago that I should be less serious about writing, and I think this has done the trick. Gar and Sigel came from looking at a book. Don't ask. Sorry if, by some strange way, I have caused offence. It should be clear that I do not 'own' Sherlock. **

**Pen**


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